


our bodies weren't big enough

by but_seriously



Category: The Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: F/M, songfeels series, tumblr askbox fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-25
Updated: 2016-08-25
Packaged: 2018-08-10 23:00:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 4,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7864849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/but_seriously/pseuds/but_seriously
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Songs and stories. Klaus and Caroline. Worlds, worlds, worlds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. LUH, "I&I"

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. So this series was pretty much born from one night of me being drunk and heartbroken and revisiting old favourite songs and just FEELING SO MUCH THAT I HAD TO WRITE. and then... this happened. People drop songs in my inbox, I write while listening. When the song ends, so does the story. Also, I'm not allowed to edit the stories at ALL once I've finished - if only to preserve the _moment_ of the writing.
> 
> 2\. Links to songs can be found in the notes. I suggest you listen while reading!
> 
> 3\. You're welcome to prompts songs in the comments, too, if you like! Don't forget to tell me if you enjoy this little series of mine :)
> 
> 4\. The entire tag can be found [here on my tumblr](http://highgaarden.tumblr.com/tagged/songfeels).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ( [listen](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DvmVZ7kp_TO4&t=YThmNmJlM2QxNzZjYTU4NWI0YzMzZTk1MDdkOTM4MTBjNDYwZDk0ZixyNDJUbENXcQ%3D%3D) )

Klaus loves her and he’s miserable with it.

“Love,” he says carefully, “has confounded me.”

An apt description was that he was hopeless with it, stupid, old and worn his bones creak and yet his dusty heart pulses something agonising when she even looks at him.

He does not like to think about what might happen if she smiles his way.

“If love’s the word, then treat it as it’s named,” Caroline says. She sounds crossed. She’s always crossed around him, always frowning. He thinks, _good_. “Or give it a better name.”

“Caroline,” he names it then. He can kiss her, he knows this, as long as she doesn’t —

Caroline turns her head, lashes with last night’s mascara smudging around her blue eyes. “Yes, Klaus.”

He walks closer. His hands had been folded behind his back but now he brings it to wrap around her neck, through her gold curls. “I’m going to kiss you.”

“But Elena and Matt are exchanging vows right now,” she reminds him reproachfully. Through the thin walls of the little room they are in they can hear aunts weeping. “And I don’t like you.”

“Better that way,” he says, head tilted in thought. Their lips touch – but they do not press, there is no relief that can be found; his breath sticks in his throat and her eyes are suddenly shutting so tight. And he whispers, “Easier.”

 _I do,_ Elena declares loud enough for the church to hear, and Klaus scrapes his fingers through Caroline’s hair, pulls her closer.

And _still_ they do not kiss.

“You smell like blood,” Caroline whispers raggedly.

“So will you, now,” Klaus says into her parting mouth, and they close their eyes and fall.


	2. The Dø, "Dust it Off"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ( [listen](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3Dhp3lKYn-2JY&t=MDk1ODI1MzQyMDEzNzU4NmQ4MGIxMzE5MDQ4NzYxYzYzZjdkZTAzYSxCRTZETXpjUg%3D%3D) )

This house is so big for a girl so lonely. That’s what her father had said when he’d visited, but Caroline had shrugged. His father was not the one paying for it.

And she never feels lonely anyway. In the early mornings she feels eyes watching her sometimes. On her porch she finds out why. It’s Klaus. He has in his hands a paintbrush.

“Hey, neighbour,” she greets sociably, ever the Southern belle.

“Let me paint you again.” Klaus never beats around the bush.

“And then you’ll drink from my pretty neck?” She smiles.

“And you can drink from mine,” he says, like it’s supposed to sound like a fair bet. He does so hate being teased.

“When they said this house was haunted they weren’t kidding,” she says as she walks through her front door. Klaus follows unhesitatingly.


	3. Snow Patrol, "Open Your Eyes"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ( [listen](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3Dfk1Q9y6VVy0&t=MTg1YmIxNWI0MTRlY2Q3Y2I4ZWZiNzllNTdjMGQyMDhjYjEzYjgwZCw4Tm5nSmVOMQ%3D%3D) )

Almost there. Almost there almost there almost there.

His feet hit the ground.

Caroline turns. Her hair whips around her face. It is late summer in Venice and there is a chill in the air and she _runs_. Her steps are leaps and bounds, she runs up the stairs in her great billowing dress and her hair a golden froth, she runs to him.

She runs to him, and he catches her, and they kiss, and he learns love.


	4. The Shoes, "Wasting Time"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ( [listen](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BrsZojCJ2OI) )

They do not go anywhere their feet do not take them. She would like to step on the tips of his. It is colder now, but they like it. The sunset reminds him of a million cities he’s enjoyed, all at once, and it shudders his bones to think that he’d forgotten the feeling. There is a drumming in the air, a clap of festivity. Klaus would like to kiss her again, but she’s busy licking blood off his palm.


	5. Angus & Julia Stone, "The Devil's Tears"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ( [listen](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3D9yQTGyYg0_E&t=ZmRiMGE2NzY4ZTM5M2QyYmE3YTE0MTRiYzRhOGY4OTY0MGVhNzQyNCxKRDF4WjJDSw%3D%3D) )

Caroline learns to bake, in the late nights Klaus doesn’t come home. Rosemary bread with garlic olive oil dip, soft bouncy Japanese buns, crumbles dusted with too much sugar, cookies that melt buttery on her tongue.

She will smell like something to be savoured slowly, and he will open the door looking like a butcher’s knife.

“I’m sorry,” is always the first thing he says.

“Sleep on the couch tonight,” she’ll reply, eyes definitely not on the bloodstains on his collar. He’d thought he’d cleaned himself up, but her eyes are sharper than that. He should know.

“Love—”

“Or I’ll cry,” she warns. Her hands, floured white, dig into her wooden worktable. It’s still new, barely scuffed. Klaus had ordered it specially for her when he picked up on her newfound hobby.

“You never cry,” Klaus says, stepping nearer.

“You’re never home to see,” Caroline says. It stings, Klaus finds.


	6. Cigarettes After Sex, "Dreaming Of You"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ( [listen](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DWr_AwbTPFIU&t=MDBjYWExODNmMzRjODkwODA2MjJlZmVlMTFiN2VlOTg2NmVjYzE0MSxDekhRTXExSg%3D%3D) )

She moves like a candle newly lit. A hover, a spark. It fills something liquid and golden in his chest. “You really are beautiful.”

“You like the dress?” Caroline turns for him. She knows he likes it when he makes a small, pleased sound. When had she started to want to please him, tease him, do silly things like hold his hand in a dark room or touch her nose to his underneath their stark white sheets?

“Well, it’s the result of an awful lot of bloody trantrums, so I have to,” Klaus grins.

“Those weren’t tantrums,” Caroline scowls, “just precisely-worded, delicately-pitched threats.”

“Learning fast, sweetheart.”

Caroline scoffs, “Please.”

But he pulls her towards him, marveling at how the material of her gown slides right across his palms. Like water, like magic. She absolutely floats. “I do love the dress on you.”

“Let me guess. You’d like it better off?” Caroline smirks, affecting a small eyeroll. Klaus’ fingers tangle in her hair at the small of her back.

“No,” Klaus says, smiling. “Keep it on. I haven’t drawn in a while.”

“Oh, to woo a heart, what does it take?” Caroline taunts, songlike, but arranges herself artfully amongst the pillows all the same.


	7. Adele, "Daydreamer"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ( [listen](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DlU8mR9sgwCE&t=OTU3Mjc5ODkyZjg1ZjBkZDFjYjJkNjUxZTJlZjExMjkzYzkwMTQ5NyxPdW1LWmNvRg%3D%3D) )

Klaus knows Caroline is truly asleep when he feels her breath, slow and warm, trickle on his neck. She’s spending the night. She never does that.

Caroline sleeps. She looks languorous curled in his sheets, like a daisy catching morning dew, the colours of her hair, his blanket, her fists pressed to her cheek. Even in her dreams she still tries to fight him off – he makes sure his laugh is not too loud.

He could kiss her, make it sound like a fairytale, but he’s not sure he wants her to wake up yet.


	8. Muse, "Map of the Problematique"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ( [listen](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DT1qzYsESDhc&t=OTZlZDNhNDJmYzdkYWViZmVmNmQzMDhhYTI4ZGIyYWIwYzQyYWNkNSxkMXFocGdoZg%3D%3D) )

Klaus drives, Caroline drives. Are they racing? One is always faster than the other, gas stations empty, blood leaking from the empty gas pumps. How the fuck even—

He does run into her, once— a stumble she would call it; a neglect of the feet, he'd correct her. They're somewhere in a town fit for cows in rundown shacks. Even the motel is missing neon teeth in the dying flicker of its name.

"You got blood on my shirt," she hisses.

"Let's get you all cleaned up," Klaus offers, and lets the body he'd been draining pitch to the floor.

"You'd be hard pressed to find dry cleaning around here," Caroline sniffs. Her eyes are no longer blue, they're black, watching him guardedly, claws ready.

"Good to know you do have some cares left," Klaus says, idly playing with a curl not yet red. Yellow, lovely bouncing in his palm. He crushes it.

Caroline bats his hand away. "You shouldn't listen to gossip."

"You shouldn't skip a town you ravaged without getting rid of the evidence," Klaus counters gleefully.

"How do you know I didn't want to leave my mark in the world?" Her voice is a challenge now. Her chin is raised. "You paint snowflakes, I'll paint towns."

Klaus studies her. "You want Stefan to find you so easily?"

Ah, a pause of a pause. Interesting. Klaus hooks onto this, showing her teeth and charm all in one smile. Entirely too much of it. "Because you don't exactly make it hard, love."

She purses her lips. Her face is clean of expression, as is always the case with vampires with their humanity flip switched, but when she speaks it has an amused little tune to it, "I wanted your company, actually."

"A phone call would have had the same effect," Klaus says of the massacre behind them.

"But it wouldn't have had the same urgency blood calls for."

"Urgency," Klaus chuckles. His breath heats up her cheeks. "Blood. You."

Caroline scowls. "Words. Lists. Point?"

"Room. Bed." He pulls her close, presses the lengths of his body to hers, aligns them together so well they have trouble breathing. "Sex."

"I prefer the floor," she tells him primly, and pushes him down so fast his head hits the floor with a thud. It's all a blue after that, sort of; Klaus doesn't know who'd enjoyed it more with the way they were both scratching at the other's back so indulgently, but at east Caroline lets him light the match for her afterwards.


	9. Alt-J, "Every Other Freckle"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ( [listen](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3D-mhgfXgwdls&t=YjNhNmU3ODc3YTU0YTVhN2ZlMDUyZjBlYmNjM2U4ZDVlY2JmYzAyOSwzVTZ2VkFjdA%3D%3D) )

 

It’s not her fault, really. It’s not her fault because she’d been planning this days for months. Meticulous notes in the margins of margins, notebooks scrawled to the last page, her Evernote blinking out memory capacity on the edge of her screen. It’s not her fault because she’d _tried so hard_.

Klaus just tried harder, that’s all. Which would have been infinitely infuriating had he not been kissing her neck.

Her lungs expand with the thrill of his touch, she feels like she is breathing in something bad, letting it scratch the walls of her chest. “How did you find me?”

“They invented Waze some time ago, I utilized it—”

“How did you—” Caroline groans. It’s not her fault. It’s not her _fault_ she’d been tired enough to text Bonnie where she’d be staying the night. Because she hadn’t _known_ Bonnie was bangin’ a Salvatore who happened to be trying to get on good terms with Elijah, who apparently had been trying to get on good terms with Klaus, who – what, had daggered him? Three times in the last year? She can’t keep count because it’s _so not—_

“—found you in a bed in Paris, decided to stay for tea,” Klaus says. His nose is nuzzled in the dip of her collarbones, his mouth a burr against her skin. Fuck him and his stupid tongue, seriously, because now they’re wetting the peaks of her nipples, “—and then if it runs too late I’ll stay for dinner, and then breakfast too.”

“Presumptious,” Caroline manages, trying her damnedest not to writhe beneath him. “Not even _invited_.”

“But you already had food laid out,” he grins into her stomach.

“I was keeping him warm for later,” Caroline says. It’s not her fault she can’t push him off, because Klaus had been affronted that she had been wearing nothing in bed, her nightie dangling off the foot of her bed, so she had tied her to the headboards with it. “You didn’t have to kill him.”

Klaus shrugs. “He was staining the couch.”

“Shit,” Caroline curses. “Tarp, next time.”

“We can get some later,” Klaus tells her, busying himself between her legs. “I noticed you needed to do some grocery shopping when I was going to clean myself off and you’d ran out of soap.”

Caroline sighs instead of groaning, which – _again_ – isn’t her fault, because Klaus sure knows what he’s doing.


	10. Firehorse, "Our Hearts"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ( [listen](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3D_wtF2uq6a0A&t=N2M3OGVmMDJhZmE5ZjYxYTE0MjEzM2Q3M2UwOWEyNWQwZTFlMzljMyw3YXJhZmY2Vg%3D%3D) )

Klaus fervently hoped she was real.

She’s standing in his door looking nervous. That’s what sets off this train of thought. Caroline Forbes never looked nervous. Frustrated, yes. Exasperated – so many times before. Intrigued, interested, and sometimes – very, very rarely, she can even manage to look charmed by him.

“You’re not a ghost, are you?” he asks casually. “You look like one. You’re in white.”

Caroline tilts her head. “I haven’t seen you in five years, Klaus. The first thing you do isyo insult my outfit?”

Klaus leans his shoulder against the mantelpiece, looking ghost-Caroline up and down. There’s whiskey and blood in his hands but he’s not drinking it. “Did it take long to put that together?”

“Kind of,” Caroline admits. “I was going for ethereal.”

“Aha!” Klaus points, triumphant. “You’re _not_ real.”

Caroline rolls her eyes. “Someone’s been drinking.” But she shrieks indignantly when the glass is discarded without care on the edge of a table and suddenly he has his hands on her cheeks.

“Solid,” Klaus notes, bemused.

“ _God_ ,” she exclaims, pushing him off.

“Reception good down here?”

“I’m not _dead_ , asshole.”

“There is literally no other explanation on earth as to why you’re here, in my study,” Klaus tells her. He sounds grave. Grave isn’t a good look on him, Caroline realizes, and she’d tell him if he hadn’t just dragged her in front of his easel.

“Going to paint my spirit now?” Caroline asks sarcastically. All Klaus does is squint one eye shut and measure her against his paintbrush, which he’d held at arm’s length.

“No use wasting a moment,” Klaus says. “Real or not real, dream or no. I’ve waited to see you for a very long time.”

And that, damnit, makes her face do something weird. Soften, or something. Klaus stops what he’s doing – squinting, framing his forefinger and thumb around her like a dumbass – and says, deadpan, dissappointed even, “Now I know you’re not real.”

“But I am,” Caroline says gently. “I’m here to see you. And you’re being stupid.”

Klaus scratches the back of his head. “Well, it’s not every day the woman you thought you’d let got away shows up at your door. Do you have anything to prove you’re not a figment of my imagination?”

Caroline considers punching him, but Klaus has blood on the corner of his mouth, so she decides to kiss him instead. He looks so surprised she gives herself a headache from rolling her eyes.


	11. Torres, "Proper Polish Welcome"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ( [everyone listen!](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DRveURiKw24M&t=NGJmMDhlNjFiZDI3YmMwNmUzZjQwYTM5NjNlODVjODQwNDQ1Y2VlOCx2bW5rMXgxTw%3D%3D) )

This is what it feels like to fall in love on a moving train: There will be sunlight, or what’s left of it in the late evening, orange and burning, slanting across her face like a second skin. He will ache to touch her, but she is at the end of the small hallway, about to enter her compartment. Because it is sundown, shadows will dance across the floor, the six steps it would take for him to get to her. Her laugh is almost overpowered by the screech and sing of steel, but he can still hear it. She hasn’t let go of the door. She’s still standing there.

Everything shakes. This is what it’s like on a moving train, and to fall in love. His hands, his insides. Klaus sees Caroline and does not call her name, because what if she doesn’t want him to? What if he still smells like yesterday’s blood? He remembers how warm she likes her blood, dug out of a cooler, tingeing on her cheeks when she’s full. But never satisfied. Bloodbags only feed you so much.

Klaus stays there, at the end of the carriage. He feels rueful. Sheepish, too, for not being able to just say _hello_. Hello, love. How have you been? Fancy meeting you here—

A moving train, love, fancy that. They had to meet in a metal tube hurtling to the seaside, screaming angry winds, wild and thrashing on the rails. They couldn’t have met on a pier. Or in the woods, they did a lot, once upon a time. But no. A moving _train_ , where even the windows rattle.

The train rounds a corner, and everything sways with it. Her hair changes to silver, to straw, to yellow, to gold, all in one turn. It hits the sunlight in a wash of magnificent colour, sour and sweet all at once, like oranges, or like blood.

He lets out a gasp.

That must have been why she turns her head.

Well, fuck. “Hello, love.”


	12. Jack Savoretti, "Hate and Love"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ( [listen](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3D9eCtPYFpHxg&t=Y2JjOGNiODJiZTk5MTliMmI2NmIxOGY0MGM4NmJkODgyYzkwMDNkNCwzU2FNWFQ5bg%3D%3D) )

Caroline is in sandals. They climb up her calves like vine on an ancient building. It’s for the sand, she says, because they keep getting in her shoes and chafing her toes. In other words, she wants to go home.

She’s been doing that. Tiny complaints under her breath, her face falling like something terrible had happened when they ran out of apricots or when the Vespa wouldn’t start. Klaus doesn’t need her to say the words. He knows.

It’s raining today, and she’s in sandals, sitting hugging her knees in front of the window that stretched the entire length of the wall. Ahead of her looms the ocean. Home is somewhere beyond the sea. Klaus cannot comprehend the feeling in his heart, watching her look so wistful.

He joins her at the window. Sits down gingerly as to not disturb her introspections. “Sorry our plans were spoilt. Didn’t think it’d rain.”

“It’s just another ciry,” she says, eyes staring out the window.

“Maybe,” Klaus agrees reluctantly. “The places stay the same and nondescript, because everytime you go you take away something with you.”

“We must all be thieves, then.”

“Going to say I stole away with you?”

“Maybe,” Caroline agrees, not so reluctantly. She looks at him. He looks back. They’re aren’t so different on some days. Today, though. Today he cannot read her.

“Home?” he chances. “The ride to the airport won’t be easy, with this rain, but I think your lugg—”

“Nah,” Caroline says, and Klaus tries very hard to clean his face of any surprise. “Sitting here is nice right now. No pointing at buildings, no losing things in museums. No people shoving us in the ribs. Let’s just stay here for a while.”

Klaus nods. He might have been still be looking at her, long after she’s turned back to the window.


	13. The Black Skirts, "International Love Song"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ( [listen](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3D80nGOu5rCT0&t=NWVhMjZhMDM5ZTNhNzkwNWU5ODdlNjU4MmQ1MGIwNzM2YzYzNmQxMyxuWDlNdW9TNA%3D%3D) )

Christmas in New York. The cold stings, the gutters stink, but the shopping - the shopping and the lights and the buildings scraping the sky. The smell of the cold, the burn of hot chocolate when he’d spilt some on his glove passing it to Caroline.

Her cheeks are pink, her mouth is open. Why bring her to Italy when she’d never even been outside of Atlanta? 

As they walk together down the sidewalk – her hands wrapped around her venti cup, his hands wrapped around the ropes of shopping bags – they hear a Santa singing drunkenly. Darth Vader challenges him to a duel. A sleeping snores himself awake and urges the fight on. Everyone appears to be very drunk on this early Christmas morning.

Caroline stops in her tracks and whirls around to face him, smiling fully now. The snowflakes that had drifted onto her lashes are melting. She looks like she might be crying, but she looks too happy for that. “Merry Christmas, Klaus.”

“Merry Christmas, sweetheart,” he says, chancing a kiss on her forehead. She hums, breathing in.  


	14. The Antlers, "Kettering"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ( [listen](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3D8We0FVflGaU&t=ZjhiMWRkNjE1ODAxZWJhODRiNDU5ODM3YjkwNWMxNWNjYTU1NDM2YSx4anhkczVPTw%3D%3D) )

The day before September is bound to begin he meets her on her porch. They don’t say anything. She stands on one end and he the other, staring each other down. Her eyes are narrowed, but there is no anger in them. Not really. He has his brows set in an impassive glance, there is no hostility there either.

When the silence grows too thick Klaus leans against the wooden bannister. Caroline immediately stiffens. Any movement on his part taken to be a move to overpower her, to grab her by her wrist and pin her to the ground. But no, love. That would mean he lost, and he would hate to lose in a competition he didn’t even start.

This porch is old. It’s the porch connected to her little yellow house, the one she grew up in, in Mystic Falls. He’s meeting her in Mystic Falls, on her porch. All these things play over and over in his mind. He is meeting her – she had come to see him.

They’re still looking at one another. Sizing each other up. Wondering who will say the first word. She has her hair in curls pulled back, but tendrils of it still hang by her cheeks. Her lips are pink. It’s been so long and she’s grown so old, but she still wears her lips in pink.

All at once he has crossed the length of the porch, kissing her. The noise she makes is muffled, the sound of a growl, of a woman who doesn’t like being taken by surprise, but her hands wrap around his neck all the same. He pins her not to the ground, but the bannister, and she grabs onto his hair and _pulls_. The night ticks into September, the crickets sing their celebration, and he kisses her on her porch.


	15. Halsey, "Colors"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ( [listen](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DJGulAZnnTKA&t=MjdjMjhiOTc3NGJhNDFjZWQ5YzZiODNiNWRkMTI1ZmE3Mjc4NWU5MSxYMUNHelZDNQ%3D%3D) )

It’s loud. Caroline feels like she’s caught in a rib cage, a heart beating against her skin. Where is all the sound coming from? It’s dark. Bright flashes of lights, fleeting, bright, popping like champagne bubbles in her eyes.

Maybe she sees him watching her. From a corner, from behind her. A brush of his fingers on her shoulder as he walks past. Maybe? It’s loud. It’s dark. She can’t think.

That was the point of tonight, wasn’t it?

She dissolves into smoke and drink. Bonnie laughs where Damon twirls her. Katherine has Elena trapped between two girls – her friend looks indignant, if only for a moment, before giving in. It’s four walls compacting pleasure and guilt and secrets into one room. It’s _loud_. It’s dark. That’s the only way anyone can survive in this state, probably.

Caroline dives into the crowd, startled at what she sees.

Bodies filled with hot blood, begging to be spilled and shared. Pleasure.

Feet that don’t touch the ground. Necks thrown back. Guilt.

Klaus finding her in the middle of the room. Hand on her waist, turning her to face him. Mouth pouring blood into her own. She drinks every last drop.

Secret.


	16. The Ink Spots, "Who Wouldn't Love You"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ( [listen](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DnqKfrG59Wgw&t=ZjhlNGYxNDFhYmViYjNjZTA4MDM5MDlhNzYxNjdiMDg4ZDFhZDBlNSx0WU5hQzF0cA%3D%3D) )

If Caroline lived in a film reel she would be fuzzy golden splendour. These are the thoughts Klaus reflects upon while leading her through the dusty archives in his Southampton home. The key to the door hadn’t been turned in years. He’d let Caroline do it.

Kol had made films in the 20s. Bent over tables and seared scenes together, piece by little piece. They had been one of the few families who could afford such luxuries, obviously. Caroline watches in silence. There’s Rebekah twirling in her velveteen dress. Finn standing stock-still for the longest time; Kol had lied and told him it was for a photograph. Elijah shaking his head before leaving the room. The briefest glimpse of Klaus through a door.

They move on to journals. All Elijah’s, of course, he objects when Caroline says, “Now I know why you and Stefan were best friends.”

She tries to read the entries about Katerina but it’s too hard, the handwriting too ancient a language. She puts it back guiltily. Klaus is content to watch her nose around, hands in his blindingly-white pressed trousers. They’d just come from the tennis court, when Caroline had said, jokingly, “Tell me all your secrets!”

“Wouldn’t you rather I show you, love?”

*

His secret is that he collects the secrets of others.

Kol’s reels, Elijah’s journals, Finn’s deformed hunks of rust that were once magnificent daggers. Rebekah’s lost lipstick tubes from 1915—Caroline tries the colours on her skin in silent awe, the way one would look upon the stained-glass windows of the Notre-Dame de Paris. He’s rather enchanted by that.

Caroline pulls a sheet off of a dusty gramophone, spends some time flicking through his records. It’s a warehouse worth of antiques she’d just combed through with remarkable efficiency. Finally she settles on one, and drops the needle on the record with something like satisfaction.

And then they dance. Swaying to the smooth crackle of jazz, the snap and whip of his favourite classics. Her heads rests on his shoulder. Their feet step in tandem between tall, cramped shelves. It gets darker the deeper they go, the yellow lightbulbs losing light the longer they stay.

“Your secret,” Caroline winces the third time he accidentally steps on her toes, “is that you’re not as good of a dancer as you think you are.”

“No, sweetheart,” he says easily. “I’m just mad about you.”

“What are you, eight?” she mutters. But when her lashes flick downwards to watch their feet, she is smiling.

 

 

 


End file.
